Page 45 of Enchantment of a Highlander

Mistress.

The word burned into Alec’s mind. This was exactly what Celia had been afraid of.

“Can I go?” Grant asked, eyeing the alleyway exit like it was heaven.

“Aye, go,” Alec said. The man needed no second telling and left quickly with the silence of a mouse.

Alec waited for the man to leave before he turned and stared out at the jagged cliffs.

There was much to say to Celia, much to atone for. And for all his renowned bravery, he suddenly felt very much the coward.

• • •

Celia squeezed the sponge and a stream of tea trickled between Duncan’s lips. He had still not woken from his deep slumber. She pressed a hand to his forehead and found it slick with sweat, yet only warm to the touch. His fever had come down significantly.

For that she could not be more grateful.

The daylight outside had gone dark with an advancing storm and most of its natural light had been shuttered against the freezing rains of winter.

The thick castle walls pressed in on her, dark save for the flickering candle and the orange glow of the fire. Shadows bobbed and trembled across the thick stone with each greedy lick of a flame.

Sweat beaded on Celia’s own brow despite the coolness of the room. She placed the sponge in the now empty bowl beside her and swiped a hand over her forehead.

More sweat prickled where she’d wiped it away. Her breath was coming a little faster now.

Were the walls getting thicker?

She stepped back from the bed and tried to draw a deep breath, but her chest was too tight.

Shadows and flames of firelight danced around her in cruel torment, reminding her of the time so long ago she’d been in a castle.

No, she could not think of it. Her eyes burned with impending tears, but she ground them away with the heels of her hands.

Hadn’t she pushed the memory too far down to recall?

Her eyes blinked open to the small room, the wavering red gold light, the stone walls, the prison.

No.

Torches flickered on the wall, providing little light and even less heat. Icy fingers of air curled around Celia, peeling her strength apart, one slow, bitter layer at a time.

Rats darted across the filthy rushes, their fat bodies bumping against her feet where she kneeled.

They waited for her to fall asleep.

Her leg flinched, but she did not pull away from where the rat stood with its beady eyes fixed on her.

Fiona needed her. Celia drew a shaky breath and tried to ignore the metallic odor of blood.

Fiona gave a long, low groan of pain from where she lay on the ground. Her arm lay useless at her side, twisted in an unnatural angle at the elbow. Celia swallowed the burn of bile rising in her throat. If only the memory of Fiona’s screams could be so easily cleared.

“Ye’ll do little good in here, witch.” A man’s gravelly voice clawed down her back. “We’re protected against ye.”

Celia turned toward the cell door. The Scottish nobleman gripped the iron bars, his gray eyes lit with wild insanity. He pointed toward her. “Ye’ll be next.”

His large garnet ring caught the flickering light and sent shards of red slashing through the room.

Fiona gave a low, grating moan.